


like teeth

by paxlux



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-05
Updated: 2011-05-05
Packaged: 2017-10-19 00:52:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/195087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paxlux/pseuds/paxlux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You’re about to break all your bones. Willingly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	like teeth

**Author's Note:**

> AUish, for the most part. La-di-da. I broke the rules.

You’re about to break all your bones. Willingly. You take a breath, and. The hammer-strike of pain, the rush of wrongness in your belly, like nausea. Then it's over. Split-second gone.

Your bones reset. You've become your other half.

Your brother stares down at you and you growl because he's scowling.

“Seriously, man, one of these days. I'm gonna get a leash and a collar. With one of those dog tags, in the shape of a, a dog bone or something and I'll get it engraved. Fluffy. Mr. Twinkletoes. Butterscotch. Just you wait.”

Your lips curl back and you bare your teeth, but Sam kneels and takes your head in his hands, fingers scratching through your fur.

“Don't push me, Dean, I'll do it,” he says, and you snap out at him, but he doesn't move. He isn’t afraid of you, hasn’t been since he was born. His hair falls in his eyes as he leans in, presses his human nose to yours.

You lick along his jaw because it bugs the hell outta him and he scowls again.

“Dude, I do _not_ need your saliva.”

Pushing teeth to his skin, you try to nip him, but he jerks away, rolling his eyes, and you almost hear him in your head, _lame, jerk, real lame_.

“No doggie treats for you.”

You huff (he’s such a little bitch), and his hair flutters around his temples from your breath and he says, “And brush your teeth next time, asshole.”

A sound in the trees and he stands as fast as your hackles rise and his eyes flash like yours do, night vision, his animal side in his human form. He taps your muzzle and you follow him into the dark.

-

The blankets are blue with cartoon trains on them. She avoids his tiny kicking feet to tickle his tummy, looking for his smile, the dimples in the chubby cheeks, but today he’s upset and won’t stop crying.

(She should've known. The scar on her neck was tingling again.)

So she croons to him, but he only cries louder and she sighs. A hand pats at her knee, Mommy, lemme see him, Mommy, and Dean's expression is so serious, his eyes older than the rest of him.

Okay, little man, here we go, she says, settling Sammy in the crib. Dean sticks his fingers through the slats to reach his brother, stroking awkwardly over the baby's forehead.

She turns to fold the blankets, dispose of the diaper and wipes, her heart breaking all over again as Sammy cries. She’s never gotten used to it, her boys crying; when Dean was born, she was so young and a new mother, and she found herself crying with him until they were both reduced to tired, sad sniffling.

Five months old, and Sammy knows what his lungs are for, crying every drop of salt he can at the top of his lungs and she sighs again as she puts away the wipes and the powder.

Then Sammy's wail changes. He isn't an upset child anymore, this sounds like a wounded animal and she whirls around to find a wolf pup in the crib where her son was.

Sammy, Dean says, _Sammy_ , and Mary almost stumbles because his voice, he’s so delighted, awestruck. She reaches out for them both, and.

Dean shifts. Another wolf pup, bigger than his brother, balancing uncertainly on hindquarters, and he presses his nose to the littler one's, tongue licking at the tiny muzzle and the paws that sweep close to the bars.

The inhuman cry stops with hitched snuffles. A small yip and Mary shakes out of her shock.

Green eyes. Older than the rest of him.

A human smile, a human hand, petting the wolf pup sprawled sleepily in the crib, combing through fur that looks as soft as the blue blankets with cartoon trains.

He's okay, Mommy, he's okay. I'm right here.

And Sammy is a baby again, a human, hand curling around his brother's finger, eyes closing.

Dean’s red firefighter pajamas puddle at his feet, ripped.

(She should've known. The scar on her neck was tingling again.)

-

You're thirteen when you bond with your brother. He's seventeen, cocky and smirking and he acts like he knows everything. He's got a new girl every time you turn around and he hunts with Dad as if he's still earning his stripes. To you, he does know everything, but lately, you’re starting to doubt it, because he looks as if he's stumbling, searching, especially the last time you had to stitch him up, along his flank, blood in his fur, and he cussed a blue streak when he went human.

He’s searching.

Until the day he says your name and you look up from your math homework.

He catches your gaze and without warning, without your fucking say-so, you shift.

You've torn your clothes, you've fallen off your chair and you're in a heap on your side, humiliated and ashamed, your shredded t-shirt dangling from around your neck. But he's shifted too, strips of cloth hanging off him, the surprise evident as he licks his jaws, red mouth open wide.

And then you _know_ , you know it, you know him, the two of you are blood and bone, you always were, always will be, but now you're, you're. You _see_ him and you can hear his heartbeat in your head.

He’s all you will ever know.

He whines in his throat and you answer with a low sound, getting your legs underneath you. Circling you, he watches, eyes never leaving yours, and you're panting, tongue lolling, scared, oh so scared.

Then your brother nips at your ear, asking if you're all right the way he knows how, with his teeth. You rub your head against his throat and he changes back human under your touch.

“ _Fuck_ , Sammy.”

It isn't any different, except you need to touch him throughout the day, he's your brother, _yours_ , and he does it too, surreptitious reassurance. You instinctively know where he is in a room, in a house, a building, but you lose him in wide-open spaces and nothing is more frightening. Sometimes he hunts you down, running in crooked patterns, because he lost the conduit too.

He still goes out with girls and you ignore the smell of their perfume and sex and you go out with girls, but no one lasts and nothing really changes.

Dean drags you into wrestling matches, wolf or human; he dares you to eat disgusting things; he calls you names and dunks you in water and makes you fetch him beers.

You're getting older, you're bigger than Dean, wolf or human, and he says, “Fucking A, Sam, this fucking sucks,” but you just smirk and say, “Bring it, motherfucker, c'mon. Just try and pin me. Loser does laundry and is crowned king of the losers.”

You shift and he chases you and you fight until you're both exhausted.

Neither one of you says anything, because nothing's changed, you're brothers, he's your world and always has been. Nothing's changed. Except.

You dream about him and when you wake up, you think you can taste him in your mouth.

He shakes around you sometimes. You touch foreheads, his hand around your neck, your fist twisted in his shirt, and the shaking stops.

You don't tell Dad. He was afraid something like this might happen; you heard him on the phone once with Bobby, don’t werewolves bond, don’t they choose a mate, the boys haven’t met anyone else; he watches you and Dean for signs, something. The two of you hunt without thought and Dad says he’s never seen anything like it.

You don't tell Dad.

It isn't until a decade later, you're twenty-three and your brother is twenty-seven and he smiles at you, dirt on his cheekbones, blood on his forehead. A decade after you bonded, and you suddenly think, _Mine_.

You think, _Mate_.

He still shakes around you. Now you might know why.

-

When he was little, Sam once bit Dean. Three years old and he gets Dean’s hand in his mouth and chomps down.

John comes back with food and finds them, Sam crowing, Dean Dean Dean, like a happy war cry, and he has blood on his mouth, and Dean says, Lookit, Daddy, maybe it’ll scar, this’ll be my Sammy scar.

I give you a scar! Sam yells and Dean laughs and John’s mind goes blank.

He gets Dean a Batman band-aid and a cape made out of a pillowcase and gives Sam some water to clean out his mouth (dammit, he might’ve swallowed some), but Dean distracts his brother, teasing him until Sam squirms and whines. So John lets his youngest go and Dean chases him, yelling, Batman! Sam giggles and runs and stumbles, shifting before he hits the floor. Dean laughs again, Lookit, Daddy, Sammy’s a puppy, lookit.

He sits on the floor and Sam crawls into his lap, tripping over Dean’s legs, licking at his face until Dean says, Stoppit, Sammy, stoppit. Then he shifts too and they dart around the motel room, barking at each other, ignoring the shredded pajamas and pillowcase cape they’ve left behind.

Panting, they finally wind down, and Sam falls over on the rug, little ribs rising and falling under his dark coat. Dean curls up with him and Sam transforms back, but Dean stays as a wolf.

They fall asleep, Sam’s arm almost lost in Dean’s lighter coat.

John takes off his boots, finds the pillow from where it disappeared in the ruckus and stuffs it into its case. Then he kneels to pick up his boys, at least get them into bed.

Sam’s still flushed from the excitement, hair sticky on his cheeks and John worries he’ll never know when they have a fever, both of them always too warm to the touch. He puts his hand on Sam’s forehead, pushing his hair back and Dean growls.

A green eye opens in the light brown fur. John stills and he knows the moment Dean recognizes him; his son’s tail thumps on the floor, then the eye closes.

He’s on his feet like a shot, feeling as if he’s escaped something and they’re his _sons_.

He watches them, hands trembling. Shit, he needs a drink.

-

The wolf is a thrum in the back of your head, like when the Impala’s idling. Or a thread of music. You hear it constantly and you hold onto it. Sometimes you find yourself humming, high-pitched, and dogs whine.

Your brother carries his wolf differently. You know his prowls; you know it in how he moves, pure power and strength, a stalking kind of agility, and you’re forever impressed when you see him, human or wolf, but you’ll shit your pants before you tell him that to his face.

People don’t know who is in their midst, this miracle creature who wants to be one of them, but could rip them apart without even trying.

He shifts like he can’t feel it. If you can see his face, you know when he’s about to because his eyes change first, flickering human-animal.

The lines of his shoulders relax right before he shifts. As if he knows he’s good at it, this is what he knows how to do.

But he’s still a pain in the ass.

You don’t remember the first time you shifted or even when you noticed the quiet steady growl in your head.

But you remember the first time Sam shifted as a toddler and scared himself and cried for almost an hour, so you shifted back and forth to show him it was okay, but you did it so often, you couldn’t move afterwards, exhausted.

And you remember the first time Sam hunted as an adult wolf and took down a black dog and when he shifted back, he had blood all over his chin, running down his neck and chest.

He grinned and you wanted. You threw his clothes at him and waited.

-

You're lying there with your brother, his nose against your throat, a point you feel every time your blood pulses. You’re both human, naked and sometimes like this, in your skin, against his skin, you feel even more naked. You're sweaty, your hair stuck to you and he's stuck to you too, his sweat, your sweat, you two have always run hotter, werewolf temperatures. Once, you didn't realize it, since you'd spent so much time pretending to be normal, once, you didn't realize it until you were on a hunt, you and your brother carrying knives and guns, fighting a monster so lost to myth it had more than one name, and when it finally fell, you were both bleeding, red on the snow. You stripped off your shirt to see the damage and your wounds steamed like your mouth, fogging in the air, your blood so heated you could see it. Magic. Dean was so excited, happy, he kissed you there in your two pairs of bloody footprints. The snow melted as you opened his mouth and kissed him.

Your brother turns a little, nose dragging along your skin, and he takes a deep breath; you try to remember each other by scent. His leg is trapped between yours, but he's got one of your arms captive, fingers not letting go. Before you kissed him, the first time, so long ago, you said _mate_ , and he nodded, smiled, a predator seeking another predator, because each time you kiss, it's a fight between dangerous animals, and sometimes, sometimes he'll slow you down with a bite to the nape of your neck, _mine,_ and you’ll bite back because what’s mine is yours and what’s yours is mine and those are the times when you think this might break you both.

You dream of your brother dying. In your dream, he knows he will die and his eyes are resigned during the day, as if he has to look at you one last time, every minute, over and over, but at night out in the dark, his eyes flash desperate and scared. You don't tell him you see it, you scratch him and try to scar him and that’s when you wake up.

Now, he says your name in his sleep. There's a tearing at your throat when you're on the road and the music is off and the two of you listen to nothing. You shift to sleep in the car and you rest your muzzle on his spine. There's a tearing, snarling, ripping, shredding, distraught, do-or-die, because you dream of your brother dying and he sleeps pressed against you as if nothing has changed. The two of you smell like each other, rubbing together, marking, this is my territory. You smell like sex. You're bonded to your brother; you won't have anyone else. Alone. You haven’t told him about the dreams. You know he doesn’t believe in them; your visions are long gone.

So you say his name now when he can hear you.

You don’t want to sleep. You don’t want to dream.

His fingers squeeze so tight you feel your heartbeat shooting up your arm.

You might be choking on your blood as it travels from your heart.

There's a tearing at your heart. It feels like teeth.

-

Dad takes a sip of bourbon. He says, She didn’t tell me. She didn’t say anything until after Sam was born. She was worried that somehow it would carry to you two, like it was male pattern baldness or something.

He doesn’t say her name.

Then Sam, you shifted, five months old, too young to know better. She told me that night. Dean, you never shifted until Sam did, but your mother had her suspicions. You used to sneak up on us, scared her to death sometimes. I remember she broke two or three plates ‘cause you’d come up behind her, she never heard you, you’d come up behind her and yell Boo! You’d disappear and she’d find you in some tiny nook in the house and we never knew how you got in there, slicker’n a greased weasel. Couldn't seem to keep you in clothes either.

The alcohol swings in the bottle, hypnotic, deep waves of red-brown. He says, One afternoon. He laughs. One afternoon, your mother heard a noise, something out in the yard. And there was this puppy, snapping at dead dandelions. She told me that night, after Sam – she thought it was Dean, running around, chasing his tail.

Sam glances at Dean, smirking, and Dean shrugs, jostling Sam’s side, smiling, hey, I’m adorable _and_ awesome.

Another swig, then another, then Dad sighs, running a hand through his hair. Sam’s sixteen, waiting, because their dad doesn’t talk like this, he’s rarely this open. Dean’s twenty, kicked back with a beer in his lap, but it’s forgotten, soaking a ring into the leg of his jeans, watching Dad. This is new.

Dad says, Your mother was walking home from a friend’s house. Late at night. Which was. Stupid, but your mother could take care of herself. This was before you were born, Dean.

Dean nods, shrugs one-shouldered and the way he moves, Sam wonders if he’s heard this story before, and he’s jealous, Dean not sharing with him. And Dean figures it out (bonded at thirteen, seventeen, bonded for three years now), he shoves Sam’s feet off the coffee table and Sam smacks him, ready to throw him to the ground, but they freeze when Dad starts talking like nothing’s happening.

She was walking down the sidewalk, almost open in the street, and the bastard grabbed her. Bit her on the back of the neck. Dad makes a circular slashing motion at his nape. She didn’t have any silver bullets on her, no gun since it would’ve scared her friend, but she had a silver knife. Stabbed him and he ran away. She was so frightened she would. Change.

The bottle lands hard on the table where Dad’s resting his arm, leaning, he’s drunk, and Dean’s got Sam in a loose headlock, but Sam can still see, through his hair and around Dean’s plaid sleeve, he can see just how drunk Dad is. The table’s holding him up.

Then she was so worried about you two. She loved you. Her baby boys. She didn’t want you to, to suffer. Never said it was a curse though. Being werewolves.

He’s never said the word before and Dean flinches, letting go of Sam, but Sam grabs his wrist, somewhat defiant.

Dad shuts down, doesn’t say any more.

That night, Sam eases out of bed and strips, folding his clothes, leaving them in a pile on the couch. He’s almost to the door, ready to shift mid-stride, when he catches the scent of his big brother, and then Dean’s there, naked, whispering, Let’s go.

They’re wolves by the time they’re out the door. They run. They don’t come back until dawn.

-

When you bonded with your brother, your world broke and rebuilt itself, just like your bones do.

Nothing changed. Except.

Sometimes you couldn’t help it. You’re older, you’re the big brother, you have experience. You bonded with your brother and you wondered about the next step, if there was a next step, and how far down would you fall if you took it. Fuck.

You could find him without looking. You knew when his mood changed almost as if you could smell it.

But there were girls, and there were girls, and there was time.

There is no one else for you but him.

Then he said, Mate, and you nodded. You’d been waiting years because you’re older, you’re the big brother, you figured it out sooner. Years. You couldn’t hide it around him and maybe he didn’t know completely, but he knew. He could calm you when you wanted too much.

But then he said, Mate, and you nodded, smiled. He kissed you and you weren’t going to fall, there was no next step, there was only the time before you bonded with your brother and now the time after. You kissed him back and then things went from zero to fucking one hundred and you never knew how much you liked to use your teeth during sex.

You and Sam figure it out pretty fucking fast.

He’s bigger than you, and he’s _bigger_ than you, fucker, but he moans like you’re the one taking him apart and not the other way around.

You should be embarrassed by the noises you’re making as he fucks you, but nah, screw it, you’re not, especially when he’s got _technique._

He’s _yours_ , has been since he was born, more so since you bonded, now mated, and you’re murderously jealous that he learned this from someone else.

But the next morning, after three knock-down-drag-out rounds, and you’ve lost track of who fucked who and who’s really keeping count, you both smell like each other, sore and bruised and dark-eyed, you catch him watching your mouth and you feel his mood change. Jealousy. You can almost hear it: where did he learn that, I’ll hunt ‘em down, I’ll take pleasure in the death throes of my enemies, or however Sam words it, he’s gotta be overly dramatic.

Turnabout’s fair play. You smile and he scowls and the day is unusually sunny.

When you’re on a hunt, it happens (shit happens) that you run into other werewolves, sometimes packs. It’s rare, the packs, typical out in the rural areas, where packs can flourish better, or so Sam says, “hide in plain sight,” and some towns, that’s all they know, werewolf lives, “like, it’s like other towns only know farming,” Sam says.

“Or boredom,” you say.

And wherever you are, whatever you’re hunting, you get the same two reactions from the packs: why are there only two of you, and which one’s the alpha.

Which is fucking funny, “shut up, dickhead,” Sam says, sulking because you can’t stop laughing.

You tell ‘em, “Yeah, brothers, we were born like this, you all right with that?” and then you wait a beat because you and Sam have a running bet about the alpha-beta thing.

There’s an almost ceremonial ritual to it, the pack semi-circled around the alpha and the two of you standing next to each other. The alpha will step forward to discuss business and the bet comes down to the alpha’s choice.

Alpha-beta.

You hold your breath and next to you, Sam sighs, so you elbow him in the ribs and he kicks your ankle and yeah, this is part of the ceremonial ritual too.

It’s ridiculous.

Some alphas choose by age, so they pick you and the first time it happened (shit happens), you were both surprised to a) find a functioning werewolf pack and b) learn the initial step in this getting-to-know-you crap, so when the alpha chose you, it almost ended in blood and tears because he ended up with Sam’s knife at his throat and your brother looming over him, saying, Get the hell away from my brother.

Who’s the pet wolf now, you said later at the motel, and Sam rolled his eyes and dragged you into the shower and let you fuck him in the water. Pet wolf, like I said, you point out.

Some alphas choose by size though and you’re kinda fucked in that area, you don’t need reminding, but you understand the angry-possessive rush when an alpha walks up to your brother and all you can see is a stranger approaching your world. You’ve learned the delicate art of restraint, or some such shit.

The bet varies: laundry, blowjobs, fetching food, fetching coffee (shit happens), first shower, whatever you can think of, especially if it pisses Sam off and you have a good chance of winning.

“You got a 50-50 chance,” Sam says and you slap his ass.

“No, I can tell.”

“No, you can’t.”

“Yeah, I can. It’s.”

He crosses his arms, to be intimidating, but it doesn’t work on you anymore. You lose your train of thought anyway.

“I just can.”

But alpha-beta, you’ve never really thought about it and neither has Sam. You both are pretty dangerous and keeping secrets has never been a good idea in any shitty scenario, so if packs want to work with you, they work with the two of you.

Who cares. As long as you’re getting laid. Oh, and you’ve got your brother.

-

Yours feels like anger, pacing and caged in your ribs. You don’t think you’re an angry person, but you have a lot of anger, and your wolf is like a fighter, waiting for its chance, the vulnerable opening.

You never lose control. You might hurt Dean, and that. That would kill you.

Dean holds his like another reflex, something to be unleashed at a moment’s notice. He can let go in the blink of an eye, from one heartbeat to the next.

You watch how he moves and stands, a grace he’s not aware of, and it’s amazing how jealous you are, how proud you are.

He’s a huge idiot at heart and when you have downtime, when nothing’s going on, he shifts and nips at you and wants to play, which should be fucking ridiculous, but it’s _Dean_.

And it’s bad to kick puppies. Though Dean, dickhead, he’s always threatening to kick you.

When he shifts, you always watch his eyes, because they’re him, all the way through.

Some days, you wish you could run around more, with your brother, as wolves, without the fear of being shot.

People don’t know Dean like you do, he could kiss ya or kill ya, as Bobby said once, but people don’t know how your brother is a once-in-a-lifetime shot at a miracle, a roll-of-the-dice specific mixture of DNA, blood, bone. Your brother. No one knows Dean like you do.

He glued your duffel bag shut the other day and you had to use your teeth to open it.

But he’s your brother.

-

Bobby’s seen a lot of things. He’s met a lot of people and met a lot of not-people. His whole life has been defined by ‘a lot of’ and he’s fine with that.

The Winchesters though are pretty damn special in Bobby’s world of ‘a lot of.’

It’s not every day he meets someone whose grief looks like it runs deeper than his, pure veins of unmined sorrow hollowing him out, and the man knows a thing or two about hunting.

John Winchester stands in his kitchen and says, I’ve passed your test, all right, you’ve got some tasty holy water beer, but I’ve got one request.

What’s that, Bobby says.

No silver.

And Bobby’s eyebrows and nerves rise at that, but he waits.

See, my boys are. John pauses. Their mother was bitten. Before they were born.

Bobby’s seen a lot of things. Those two hellions in his living room, arguing over the TV, Dean and, uh, Sam, that’s the younger kid, twelve and eight; Dean looks like the troublemaker with a smirk older than he is, but Sam looks like the little angel who could probably bring Bobby’s house down by pulling out a single nail. They’re both smart, he can tell, but their gazes are too much.

They’re old bones and they haven’t even grown into them yet.

Boys, John calls. The voices go quiet and he sighs. Shift. John says the word like an order and Bobby remembers he’s an ex-Marine.

Silence, and it sounds like Sam asks a question, but Dean shushes him. Rustling. Then the almost-lost noise of paws on Bobby’s floor.

Two wolf pups, still growing, and they pad uncertainly into the kitchen. There’s a sock stuck on one paw of the larger wolf, and his stature changes, a quick hunker, as if he’s embarrassed, shrugging, before dragging the sock off with his teeth and the smaller one huffs, like a human sigh, all exasperation. Spitting the sock out, the larger one looks at Bobby with green eyes and the smaller one glances up, petulant, with ever-changing hazel, and Bobby _understands_.

He feels stupid, tugging on his cap, and John doesn’t say anything, just sips his beer.

Dean’s coat is light blonde-brown, color pooling darker along his spine and tail, pouring over his head and muzzle, then the brown fades into almost gray-white down under his body and his legs. He regards Bobby with a certain coolness, as if they do this every day, shifting to wolves in front of strangers.

But Sam watches his brother, head turned away. He’s almost entirely black, and when Dean leans against him, fur brushing together, Bobby can see it isn’t black, but brown-red, so dark it looks black though unlike his brother, the color is complete everywhere except his belly and legs, lightening out to brown. A brown like Dean’s.

And it’s fucking strange to stand here as if this is the damn Westminster Dog Show and see these motherless boys in wolf form with their coats on display.

John says, No silver.

Bobby nods, Not a problem.

But he’ll make it his problem, a real shitfire hair-raisin’ problem if he finds out John is treating these boys like dogs. Or like wolves.

Sam lets out a small bark, like a question, and Dean nudges him hard, almost toppling him over, and they lope out of the kitchen. Bobby hears his back door slam and a louder bark with an answering short howl.

They’re running, he’d bet money, but John doesn’t seem to notice.

I’m following this demon, he says, and Bobby gets back to the problem at hand.

Years later, he doesn’t mind if the boys shift in his house as long as they get naked somewhere else, he’s seen a lot of things, but that ain’t something he needs to see. They take it in stride, so to speak, changing elsewhere, one minute they’re the boys he’s adopted and the next they’re the wolves he’s defended many a time.

He’s lost count how many times hunters have dropped by unexpectedly to be met by a pair of snarling wolves and then there’s a barrel ready to shoot silver in his boys’ faces.

Sam and Dean drive up to his house and he’s got beers ready for them. For some reason, Sam’s a wolf when they get to his porch (he’s long stopped trying to figure out why and when they shift) and Bobby says, “You takin’ the puppy out for a walk?”

Dean laughs, says, “Yeah, he was feeling cooped up and needed to piss. Whined for the last two hours.” Sam shakes his head and Dean kneels to his level. “Now go do your business. That’s it. Go on, boy. Go lift your leg on Bobby’s cars. And if you’re good, maybe later we’ll play fetch.”

Sam bites Dean on the leg and darts around them into the house and Bobby helps Dean with their gear.

He hears them sneak out at night sometimes and he doesn’t say a word because he’ll never forget that day, their dead father standing in his kitchen, eyes cold, while his sons waited patient, wolves at attention so Bobby could see what -- who they were, and it was because of them, those boys, that he threatened to shoot John Winchester.

He knows who they are, man or wolf, so it doesn’t matter. He’ll shoot whoever he has to.

-

Once when you were fourteen, you were leaving school, backpack heavy, thinking about the biology test in the morning, and suddenly, you were on the ground, the wind knocked out of you and you were scrambling on the concrete.

Whatsamatter, Winchester, you can’t even walk right. Freak.

Good ol’ Billy Barnes, a bully built to fit the stereotype, there’s one in every school, and Dean always says, Fuck ‘em if they can’t handle the freaky. But the truth is you didn’t want to be a freak; you are one, you know it, but you don’t want to know it.

Lemme help you up, Barnes said, yanking you to your knees by your jacket and by fourteen, you’d learned three ways to knock him over, four ways to knock him out, two ways to dislocate his shoulder, and if you really, really wanted, you could say fuck it, shift, and tear his throat out, his windpipe dangling in your teeth.

But that’s daydreaming and you dodged his first fist, but not his second and he was about to put a foot in your chest when he started screaming, high-pitched like he might be torn apart.

You sat up, your eye already swelling, your body bruising, to see Dean, his fur bristling out, back arched, and he was so pissed, he was snapping at anything that moved, growling hard, that sound that always made your chest vibrate.

The principal burst into the knot of students, yelling, What the hell is going on here, _oh my sweet lord._

Dean backed towards you, waiting in an attack stance, snarling, you’d never seen him so angry and the principal blustered, Holy sh– is that a, what is that, is that a coyote, a wolf. _Big_ dog.

He babbled, naming species, and you thought of the biology test in the morning.

Students were huddled together, terrified, and you wanted to let Dean intimidate them some more, your pride running away with you, you don’t fuck with the Winchesters, but enough was enough and your face fucking hurt. Picking up your backpack, you put a hand on Dean’s head and for dramatic effect, he snarled, barking loud and sharp.

The kids screamed and the principal jumped. Is that your – your, is that thing yours.

Then the show was over, you and Dean walked away without a second glance until you got to the car and you were shaking, What in the _fuck_ , Dean.

He shifted by the driver’s side, tossed in his clothes to sit on and climbed in naked, jacket thrown in the backseat. I shoulda fuckin’ _ripped his lungs out_ , Sammy! Lemme see your eye.

The kids at school gave you a wide berth for the next few weeks, then the school was just another building in the rearview. But it was fun while it lasted when a girl walked up to you and said, Was that your.

Wolf, you said. Pet wolf.

And word got around.

You don’t tell Dean that until you’re on a hunt, many years later, on a stakeout, waiting for the sun to come up on a suspected vampire nest. He punches you and you catch his arm, put his wrist in your teeth and he says, “Pet wolf, you fucking wish. If anyone’s the pet here, it’s you, tiger.” Then the sun’s rising and it’s time to dance with some bloodsuckers.

“Let’s go, Spot.”

“Fuck you, Rover.”

You don’t love hunting; you love hunting with your brother.

You hunt in combinations: as humans with your father’s fighting skills and weapons training; as wolves with your fangs and jaws and instincts; in a pair, you or your brother as a wolf, the other as a human and sometimes the bond is even stronger that way.

It gets the job done though you never get used to the taste of blood in your mouth.

The only thing you can’t hunt as a wolf are ghosts. They have no smell, no taste, usually make no sound as they move, and are faster than your reflexes. “So unless you wanna chase ‘em like fireflies, Sam,” Dean says, “c’mere and help me shovel.”

And maybe it’s the wolf side of you both, but some days the only peace you find is when you’re hunting with your brother, human or wolf, side-by-side, and all the pieces fit together.

-

You wake sweaty and breathing hard. You were dreaming of running, your legs and heart and lungs and muscles working in perfect tandem, an amazing machine, and you were free.

But your reality is very different because you're in bed, in a cheap motel room that smells of stale chemicals and smoke, and it's a far cry from the ground you were running over, away from the car and the road. Four hours -- you check the clock -- no, six hours ago, you and Sam were hunting a rogue werewolf, one who was killing to be killing, he even fucking said that, we're fucking _gods_ and they're our _sheep_ , man, c'mon, tell me you don't like the taste of blood, the big bad wolf ain’t called the big bad wolf for nothin'.

It always hurts to see the look on Sam's face when this happens, when one of you has to pull the trigger. Silver bullet to the heart. Even if the fucker deserved it.

The other side of the bed is empty. You don't remember seeing Sam in your dream and now you're alone.

You were dreaming of running and you're searching for your clothes, where the fuck are they, Sam barely gave you a chance to get out of them before he tackled you. You're covered in bruises from his mouth, where the hell is he, _you need to find him_ , and as you start to panic, the mattress dips.

He climbs into bed, wolf, and he tilts his head.

You were dreaming of running and he knows.

He waits for you to shift and then he's leading you out the door. You rub against the car, like you always do, your territory because no matter how fast you can run, the car goes faster and it's carried you and Sam all of your lives.

Sam calls to you.

Running. You were free. There’s an hour left until dawn.

Your brother's storm-rising eyes stare out at you from dark fur and you press your nose to his. Then he takes off, full sprint, and you chase after him.


End file.
